I blink.
“Put the book back where you found it.”
My anger flares again, grateful for something easier to hold than sadness.
“You’re telling me what to do with a book now?” I snap.
His mouth curves. “I’m telling you what to do with my things.”
I lift the book slightly. “What, afraid I’ll steal it?”
His eyes flash. “Afraid you’ll bleed on it.”
The sentence hits wrong—too intimate, too knowing.
I freeze.
Lorenzo holds my gaze for a beat, then turns away like he’s done with this moment.
He walks toward the door, hand on the handle, shoulders tight.
Pausing, he turns his head slightly, not looking at me, but not leaving either. “Don’t make me regret letting you into this room.”
He exits, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that feels like a lock.
I stand there alone, book trembling in my hands, heart pounding so hard it aches.
The library feels different now.
Not safe.
Not neutral.
Because he stood here and let something human slip out, and now I’m holding the evidence like it’s going to burn through my skin.
I shove the book back onto the shelf too hard, the spine thudding against the wood.
Then I press my palm to the shelf and breathe, slow and shaky, trying to find my footing again.
Because if Lorenzo Amante is right—
If I was never a phase for him . . .
Then what does that make me?
The prize?
A punishment?
Something else entirely?
46
Lorenzo
Time to getmy head out of my ass and get back to work.
I’ve been dicking around at home for too long, and I’m about to get gutted if I don’t give my uncle some useful intel.
